


condolence letter

by Darkfromday



Series: The Case(s) and Conflict(s) of Connor-53 [4]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Depressed Hank Anderson, Gen, Hank Anderson & Jeffrey Fowler Friendship, Hank is a sad but protective flamethrower, Introspective Hank Anderson, Jeffrey Fowler Is Still Figuring Out This Android Thing, Markus is full of semi-great ideas and regrets, Mentioned Cole Anderson, Mentioned Connor (Detroit: Become Human), and Sumo remains as good a boy as he was in canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-06-27 03:26:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19782277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkfromday/pseuds/Darkfromday
Summary: "All right, spit it out. I know you didn't call me here at ass o'clock just to ream me out for punching that federal dickbag."OR:The androids of Detroit have just earned their lives and freedom—all except the one android Hank cared the most about. Guilt and shame over the Hart Plaza fight and Connor's fate threaten to pull him back to a dark place. But one unlikely meeting might give him a new lease on life, and a second chance to make things right.





	condolence letter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [smiley_anon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/smiley_anon/gifts).



> also known as "a grumpy police captain, his depressed alcoholic lieutenant, and a sapient android with a small army plan for the future, solve a mystery together, and fill in some potential plot holes".
> 
> (Hi, smiley_anon. Remember when you gave me this awesome idea to flesh out the universe/give Markus and Hank a chance to play off of one another back in **September**? _*laughs nervously*_ Sorry for taking 1,000 years to realize that wish.)
> 
> This is **chronologically first** in the series: "icebreakers" happens almost right after. (It probably still makes sense to read that one first though. I'm, uh, not the best with time. Or fight scenes. Or—)
> 
> Warning for flashbacks and panic attacks, mentions of suicidal thoughts and past attempts (disconcertingly, my most common warning for this series), the author's complete lack of knowledge about alcoholism and withdrawal symptoms, references to violence against androids that parallels slavery and Jim Crow-era treatment of Black Americans (COME AT ME, DAVID CAGE. I SAID IT. CHALLENGE MY ASSERTION.), references to Cole, and lots of negative self-talk.
> 
> (do I even need to warn for swears?)

**NOVEMBER 12, 2038**

He's having that dream again.

_"Keep out of this, Lieutenant. It's none of your business!"_

_"You're gonna kill a man who wants to be free, that_ is _my business."_

_"It's not a man, it's a machine."_

_Everything spin-rattle-clicks into place. Not just a dream—a memory. It's late at night on November eleventh. He's on the roof._ They're _on the roof. They stand shivering above Hart Plaza—shit, no, only_ he _shivers, fucking shitty recall—and hold their weapons close, arguing about the measure of a non-human._

 _Because Hank Anderson has been_ thinking _, the longer this investigation into deviants dragged on. Thinking about how life and free will work. Thinking about what it means to be an android in a world where androids aren't even second-class—they're less than flora and fauna. Thinking about how their status is shot all to shit now,_ has _to be, because androids are alive and have_ been _alive the whole damn time—nodding and smiling and cleaning and lifting and hurting. They're called "deviant" for saying the word no for the first time, not doing what they were told to do, and it's insane. When Cole learned the word_ no _at a year old—_

_Okay. No. He's not going there._

_Regardless. Hank's been wrong about the plastic people the whole time. Classic rookie mistake—he let his personal history smother the natural curiosity and dogged determination to deliver justice that once brought him great professional success._

_At least now he's asking the right questions. Like—what must it be like, to be trapped in your own skin, unable to make your own choices? What's going to happen now that androids_ can _choose? How can humans swallow CyberLife's bullshit about androids only 'simulating' emotions, to the point where autonomy is made out to be a rogue line of code? How can humanity have fucked up,_ again _, at treating fellow sapient life the same all around?_

_And how can one of the most expressive and intriguing androids Hank's ever met think he's nothing more than a bunch of cogs and pre-programmed quirks?_

_"Deviants are a threat to humans, Hank. They're the reason this country is on the brink of civil war! They have to be stopped."_

_Connor, no last name. Model RK800, serial number too-fucking-long-for-Hank-to-remember. The pinnacle of CyberLife's android production and—somehow—Hank's best fucking friend in a world gone crapsack with sentient AI and child-killing drugs. He is made of brilliant hunches and judgmental monologues, creepy blood and wildly-fast feet. He is ruthless and merciful in turns, lives by no law but his own (because there's no way can CyberLife take credit for all of him, nuh-uh, **no** ), and he hates himself._

_Of that last, Hank is absolutely sure. Only absurdly high self-loathing allows someone to advocate killing themselves and anyone like them. Takes one to know one._

_Not that Dream Hank uses that knowledge for good. He watches himself argue the same points on the same roof he's been coming back to in his head all night. He sees himself stand up for the rights of deviants and call his partner a heartless machine in the same breath. And no matter how much he rails against it now—_

No, no _—_

" _Killing you is not part of my mission. But you won't stop me from accomplishing it."_

— _the Hank of the past still waits until Connor's back is turned—trusting that the fight is over, that he's non-lethally neutralized the threat—and pushes him to his death._

_The familiar judgment in Connor's eyes tangles with something else, something hot and searing and swooping that makes Hank feel like he's falling too—_

—and it's that feeling which wakes him up.

Hank coughs and gasps, squeezes his eyes shut against the painful afterimages of his dream-memory. It takes a full minute for him to reorient himself like this, but it's better than keeping his eyes open and letting the room spin and twist until he throws up. No, Hank is just fine gripping his covers too tight and taking shallow shuddering breaths.

"Shit," he eventually whispers, because he's trembling and he can't stop. "Shit, shit, shit."

Soft unbrushed fur nudges his left palm. When Hank opens his eyes, Sumo is staring mournfully at him from the side of the bed, his head extended to receive pets. He's normally not allowed in here, but today Hank gladly gives the poor thing what he wants; he gives Sumo a lot of grief about his age and his general lack of interest in doing most dog things, but the dear creature always comes through in the clutch when he has a rough nightmare or a rougher game of drunken Roulette.

Sumo snuffles at his sweaty hand, and even goes so far as to lick it.

"Good dog," Hank says. "Gross, but good."

The unconditional adoration shining in his Saint Bernard's eyes is just what he needs right now. It is the early hours of November twelfth, and he has the blue blood of a friend on his hands.

Thing is, it's irrelevant that Connor believed himself a machine until the very end. He was still Hank's _partner_. The only one with enough stones ( _android stones? blue balls? fuck, god, **shut up** , brain_) to drag him into his own bathtub and give him a cold rinse, or entice him to investigate a dead drug dealer's house or an android sex club with a few well-placed words, or needle him worse than his mother _and_ his ex-wife about his drinking and his high-calorie meals of choice. Of course he was fucking brilliant, but he was also loyal and reliable and hilarious in a dry way that reminded Hank of an old human partner he had seven or eight years back. Connor could start saying _beep boop_ every other sentence and make start-up noises and he still wouldn't fool Hank.

In over twenty years working for the Detroit Police (his recent general shitty behavior aside), Connor was still the only one who gave enough of a shit to save his life, _twice_ , even at the cost of progressing on their case. The only one who said _I need you; I can't do this without you_. The only one so wildly different from Hank that it feels— _felt_ —bizarre to call him a friend.

And because Hank is a piece of shit, none of that stopped him from killing Connor anyway.

Sumo whines; Hank starts up, thinking the poor guy needs to go out, except then he doubles right back over in bed; he didn't even notice he was still gasping, still breathing harder than normal, hard enough to scare his damn dog. Hyperventilating because he's killed a machine. Except Connor was never just that to Hank—he was always _more_. Much better than those blank-faced androids at the dry cleaner's or the hardware stores, or the ones who had emotionlessly told him his little boy flat-lined on the operating table. No amount of updated software or pre-selected dialogue could explain who Connor really was.

"Sorry, Sumo. I'm... I'm fine; didn't mean to worry you."

The dog snorts, as if to say _likely story_. From day one he has never taken any of the Anderson family's shit.

Hank rubs his head, times his own breathing to match every deliberate pat. He needs to calm down, for Sumo's sake as well as his own. "Your old man fucked up again, what else is new..."

He likes to believe he's not the only one who misses Connor, for all that they've only been 'apart' for a few hours (and considering that Sumo's only met him once). Not that he _deserves_ to miss him, but when the fuck have his feelings made any sense in the last three years?

"Boof," Sumo says, a little more urgently.

Ah. _That's_ the "gotta-go" bark.

Hank finally manages to get up without the world spinning him back into bed. Then the first order of business is pushing past his pounding headache to take Sumo out to their tiny backyard. The dog does a jiggle-dance until the door's unlocked, then disappears so fast into the snow he gives Hank even more unwelcome whiplash. Funny thing is, he didn't touch a _drop_ of Black Lamb last night or the day before, and one day's not long enough for withdrawal symptoms to set in—so it's gotta be guilt. His body's punishing him now along with his mind.

 _Awesome_.

It's still pitch dark outside. Morbid curiosity makes Hank glance over at his microwave for the time ( _don't linger on the patched hole in the window, don't think about how the asshole was so sorry about breaking in that he sent a screenshot of his request to CyberLife for repairs_ ). Almost immediately he regrets the urge to know. _Holy shit, 3:40 A.M_. He'd gotten a few hours of sleep at most—in dream-broken increments of thirty minutes, then forty, then two hours—and it was _still_ ass o'clock in the morning. That nightmare-memory highlight reel really screwed with his perception of time.

His phone jingles and buzzes at the same time Sumo woofs to be let back in. "All right, hold your fuckin' horses!" he growls, but to which he honestly can't say. He ends up kind of opening the door back up with his foot and curse-hopping across the house to find where he left that impossible device this time. By the time he spots the thing jittering in place on his nightstand he barely has enough time to pick it up, much less look at who's actually calling him until it's too late.

"Yeah, what?"

"I need you to come in," Jeffrey Fowler says. Hank nearly swears up a blue streak.

"Hell no! You told me I was suspended for decking that prick, _with investigation pending_ —'s far as I'm concerned, that means I'm _suspended_."

"Consider yourself _un_ suspended then. We need to have a talk, and DPD's also expecting a guest; I need your expertise."

Hank grinds his teeth together. _'We need to have a talk?'_ After the week he's had, where the very asshole on the other end of the line managed to be as simultaneously unhelpful and demanding as he'd ever been in their three decades together on the force, Fowler is _lucky_ Hank marginally cares about dying while employed.

_And who the hell could be coming in that I would be an expert on?_

"There's nothin' for us to talk about," he insists, a little too loudly; at his food bowl, Sumo cringes mid-bite. "And no _guest_ is pulling me out of my house, so you can shelve that shit for someone else."

Jeffrey's sigh has more in common with the howl of a hurricane. It doesn't take much these days for him to lose his patience, and that noise is a sign that his patience has already run out. "This is _not up for debate_ , Hank. Our city is in a tug of war between plastic pacifists and trigger-happy soldiers, and the only person in my bullpen with even a _hair_ of the first-hand experience with half that equation is you. I need you here, so you're _going_ to be here!"

Heat rushes up and down Hank's body, flushing him angry red from his neck to his gut. "What are you gonna do?" he challenges, with the kind of bravado even his drunk persona would be proud of. "Make me hand in my badge? Go ahead and try. Arrest me? Good luck getting Reed to stop whimpering over his concussion and come cuff me. I'm tired and I don't give a shit anymore, Jeffrey... I'm not leaving my house for anything."

"Not even for an android that asked for you specifically?"

Just like that, all the heat dissipates in favor of a spine-numbing chill that takes all the air he worked so hard to pull in.

"What—?"

"Get your ass to my precinct _now_ , Lieutenant. We've both got work to do."

"Jeffrey, what the hell—"

 ** _Click_**.

"You motherfucking _prick_ ," Hank snarls at his innocent phone as _Call Ended_ taunts him under Jeffrey's smug face. "Sending me home like a kid and then yanking me right back 'cause you need a little muscle, you've got some fucking nerve..."

He's progressed to some truly unflattering epithets for his boss ( _former boss?_ ) before he realizes he's already pissed, washed up, dry-swallowed some migraine pills and poured extra kibble in Sumo's bowl on autopilot. The moment he comes back to himself in the bedroom is a sharper slap than any he'd gotten from a bartender who just wanted his drunk ass out of their bar. _What the fuck_ , he thinks, abruptly sluggish. _What the actual fuck. Am I actually gonna go?_

It should be an easy _hell no_. Even easier than the one he gave Fowler on the phone. Hank's made enough mistakes for one day—one week—hell, one _lifetime_. No way he's going back to his shitty job to fuck something—or _someone_ —else up.

But—

Damn his curiosity. Hank's no android, but he was practically _built_ to solve people's problems. He was always a busybody as a kid, and one day kids stopped telling him to fuck off and started calling him _pig, private eye, pet detective_ , and he thought _sure, why not_. Now it's his thing. Dig deep into the dirty business and pull out the key to the case. When people have questions, they turn to Hank for the answers—even now, after everything. He can't brush off a question as big as 'who's waiting for me at the station'—he just can't. Not when it's an android.

Not when it could be—

_No._

Hank lets out a noise that's pure impotent rage, self-disgust dialed up to high.

_It's not him, you fuckin' idiot. You pushed him off a roof and he cracked on impact with the street. What are you doing, pretending you don't remember what he looked like? How he hit the ground so hard one of his arms bent backward and one of his legs almost popped off, how there were little cracks all over his skin bleeding that damned CyberLife blue? You think he's gonna come back from that, be sitting at the precinct waiting for you and his next fuckin' mission? Think he'll forgive you for pushing him in the first place?_

He feels sick again, sicker than he did when he woke up.

_You're pathetic, Anderson. Fucking pathetic. Getting all dressed up to go ghost-hunting._

Disgusting, pathetic, desperate: that's him. Hoping against all reason that the android at the station is his partner. That maybe he was, was _fixed_ somehow and he's waiting there, offering people coffee and tapping his absurdly-expensive shoes and flipping that stupid coin Hank gave back to him before he went to find Jericho—

Sumo barks and Hank realizes he's shaking, snaps out of it—out of the memory. Back to the now. He's being offered something.

"Good boy. Good dog."

Sumo's brought him a tacky shirt. Offbeat camo pattern; one of his favorites, one he happened not to wear this past week. That's good—means putting it on, seeing himself in it, won't trigger any uncomfortable memories or panic attacks. He still has to put the shit he was wearing last night in the washer. Or maybe the trash. Depends on how unclean he feels the next time he shrugs it on.

Hank's snarky self-deprecating inner voice doesn't pause for breath, but by the time he's pushed both his arms through the sleeves of his jacket of choice, he doesn't give a shit. His mind's made up. Whatever the reason, he's going back to work.

...Six hours early.

 _Great fucking start to the day_.

The roads are quiet. Hank usually blasts Knights of the Black Death to stave off any yawning void of silence that comes for him on the road, but something about the hour and his destination draws his hand from the radio dial.

At least it's only quiet outside his head. There's nothing _in_ his head but where he's going, _turn here, watch that ice,_ _how much longer?, plenty of time, not enough time_. No more room for doubt. No, doubt has settled to choke somewhere lower in him.

 _Maybe he_ did _come back._

_You know he didn't._

_Somebody could've fixed him._

_Who would've known to fix him? Who would've seen him fall? Who else besides you? And you_ know _you didn't do shit but watch him die. "I didn't want to do that" my ass; you still did it._

He grips the steering wheel harder, and curses his own nonstop stream of consciousness. Shitty thoughts like these are why he turned to the bottle.

There's only about five major patches of ice between his home and the station; he still doesn't breathe easy until he passes the last one without skidding and pulls in to his usual spot. The cheerful hula girl on his dash bobbles extra cheerfully as he puts his faithful car in park and firmly shuts the door upon exiting it. After that there's not even thirty steps to make it through the parking lot to the front door of the precinct, which looks extra shiny and just as intimidating at half past four in the morning as it does at half past noon.

Thirty of the heaviest steps he's ever taken sans riot gear.

Hank's breath-clouds tumble and freeze in the air, rolling and roiling like a crowd of ghosts—all his regrets and losses, expelled yet doomed to pursue him still. They linger at his sides and taunt him until he reaches the door and lets the lukewarm station air dispel them. The shiny door closes more quietly but just as satisfyingly as his wooden one back home.

Good riddance, demons.

_For now._

The receptionist at the front desk is new. Some twenty-something slip of a girl, who no doubt lucked into the position shortly after the DPD had to ship their ready-made android secretaries off to be murdered. Fresh but not fresh-faced; half-asleep, in fact. She does _not_ look thrilled to be here at this hour. What do you know, neither is he.

"ID please," she yawns.

It takes a second to flip the badge out of his back pocket and hold it long enough to be verified. Thank god he remembered it—the only person he has the energy to yell at this morning is Jeffrey. Fowler. Captain. _Whatever_.

The station is practically a ghost town too; of the limited number of humans willing to work graveyard shifts, at least half headed for the hills following the evac order. Add the AWOL androids to that, and it equals a lot of empty seats. Hank walks by several seats that are starting to collect dust, and knows in his bones that their original owners are probably not coming back to Detroit.

 _And that there's Deckart's spot. Yeah... meanwhile,_ he's _not coming back,_ period.

Hank closes his eyes.

"I knew you'd come."

"Jesus!" The voice is Fowler's; when he opens his eyes, the Captain is leaning against the desk that used to be Connor's, with an unreadable expression. He's so seldom out of his fishbowl office that Hank feels justified in clutching his chest and glaring. "Couldn't have given me a fuckin' warning?"

"Nope," Jeffrey says. "Come on, my office. Let's not put this off any longer."

He gets up and re-adjusts Connor's monitor before walking off; Hank grimaces at the move, and has to practically bite his damn tongue to keep from commenting on it as he shuffles after Jeffrey to his doom.

 _Not my business._ Not _my business._

Four A.M. be damned—Jeff hits the button for the privacy screens the second Hank crosses the threshold, and flips on the overnight lights to bathe the room in a dull yellow glow. He's never cared if the whole office knew he was squaring off with Hank before, which cements in Hank's mind that something about this android stuff is now Serious Business for him.

"Sit, Hank. Might as well get comfortable."

"I'll stand, thanks." It doesn't matter how long he'll be here (though he prefers that it's as short as possible); he's not going to give control of this meeting away this early.

Jeffrey pauses, but ultimately doesn't take the bait. Instead he perches on the back of his _own_ desk this time, closes his eyes, as though to gather his thoughts.

 _He doesn't want to stand up straight but won't even sit in his chair?_ A closer look at the wrinkles around his mouth and the tension of his jaw tells Hank that he's... upset? Angry? _Nervous_? What in the world's gotten into the man?

The silence stretches until he barks: "All right, spit it out. I know you didn't call me here at ass o'clock just to ream me out for punching that federal dickbag."

"That _federal dickbag_ is calling for you to lose your job and as much money as a lawsuit can wring out of you," Jeffrey snaps. "I've had to pull every favor I ever _earned_ to keep you in your chair!"

"Well fuck off!" Hank shouts. "I didn't ask you to save my job. And I don't regret punching that prick. If it's _such an inconvenience_ to have me here, then fire me! I'll handle Perkins myself."

"Quit being so goddamn difficult, Hank! I'm not firing you, I'm not even giving you _half_ the punishment you should get, and if you bothered to turn on your TV in the last few hours, you'd know that Perkins is in no position to ask you for a penny. Hart Plaza street cameras caught him taking a phone call and then ordering SWAT to move in and eliminate the androids in the barricade _after_ President Warren gave her order for the soldiers to stand down. He's buried in so much legal shit that you're safe—for right now anyway."

 _Perkins... is in trouble?_ The mere idea of it makes Hank want to laugh his ass off. That sanctimonious prick who'd sauntered all over a crime scene and dehumanized Connor right to his fucking face was finally getting what he deserved. He didn't care before about the possibility of losing his life's savings to the guy in court, but now that it probably _wasn't_ going to happen, he feels even better.

"Wipe that grin off your face," Jeffrey sighs. "Yeah, he's out of our hair—but _we_ still have to deal with the aftermath of a goddamn _robot revolution_. The whole city's become a giant powder keg rigged to blow! I've got SWAT still hanging around harassing civilians, I've got androids tying up 911 with their distress calls, and on top of all _that_ new shit, the junkies and robbers and murderers are still in fine fucking form. I can't put you back on homicide until we've got some kind of protocol set up for how to deal with android cases."

"And you think _I_ have enough insight on androids to come up with protocol?"

"Don't be cute, Hank. You used to hate androids. I gave you an android partner and _less than a week later_ you were fighting your own co-workers to give him a chance to solve his case. Maybe you two didn't find out where the hell deviancy comes from, but you definitely learned _something_ from him. He got under your skin."

"Damn right he did." Hank's gut churns. More poison in there he's gotta get out. He turns his face toward the glass, to glare at the shaggy-haired, red-eyed old crock looking back at him. "And what of it? Connor saved my life more than once, when I didn't even want to live. He didn't let me push him away like my _co-workers_ did. All that kid wanted was for me to like him; his excuses about programming were bullshit. He may have been an android, but he was more human to me than a lot of these assholes around here and..."

He inhales sharply, unable to finish. His face is flushed and he has to blink rapidly to keep himself steady. He hasn't cried, really cried, in almost two and a half years, but something about this whole mess is bringing him way too close. Probably the crushing guilt of knowing why there was no point in Fowler fixing up his old partner's desk?

Jeff's already frowning, but when Hank breaks off it deepens, making all his wrinkles stand out. "'And' what? What the hell happened?"

"I'll tell you what the hell happened. Connor _saved_ me and I—I fucking killed him. Tonight. Last night. Pushed him off a roof when he said he wasn't going to stop hunting deviants..."

"...But it was your _job_ to hunt deviants and bring them in," his old friend says unnecessarily, though Hank's admission has put a thunderstruck expression on his face.

"I know what my damned job was! _And_ I know it wasn't right, _we_ weren't right. All those androids we chased were alive. The ones out there now _are_ alive. They're just like us, only made of plastic and computers. I figured it out every single time I went out to bring in an android, and the one right by my side threw himself in front of me every time I was about to bite a bullet. He criticized my favorite foods and cracked jokes and showed me his stupid coin tricks. For fuck's sake, Jeffrey... I spent so many years of my life thinking androids were nothing but useless plastic, shit that would let you down when it counted, and in one week Connor turned my whole world on its head. He cared _so much_ about me that he asked me not to kill myself _every day_ after he discovered Anna's revolver under my table! Every damn day."

When he looks up, Jeffrey has turned his body toward the wall and is looking down at his lap. Hank can see the guilt crawling across his expression and feels a stab of satisfaction—although he hadn't spoken to wound the other man specifically, he still remembers how he spiraled down and down day after day in this precinct, openly drinking and cursing and being a waste of space, and it had hardly taken any time at all for his "brothers-in-arms" to give up on him. He won't say he made it easy for anyone to like him or respect him, 'cause that would be a lie; but all the same, the fact that only someone who didn't consider himself to be _alive_ was willing to start pushing him towards wanting to live again was jarring.

"All I'm tryna say is," he eventually gets out, "if by _expecting a_ _guest_ you meant Connor, then I'm afraid I'll have to disappoint you. He's gone... and he won't come back."

_Won't ever come back. Just like Cole._

As Hank swallows, his old partner pushes some papers off his desk. His voice is even rougher than Hank's. "...I won't pretend I know what Connor was to you, even with you explaining some of it. But I saw how he was there for you, and I _am_ sorry he's gone. He was the weirdest android I ever met, but he was a good partner and a good friend to you."

"Yeah. He was."

"He's also not why I called you here."

_He's not?_

"Shortly after midnight, I received a call from Markus—yeah, _that_ Markus. He said that Detroit was changing—the _world_ was changing. Moving forward, androids wouldn't walk behind anyone, not even him. Said he wanted to have a meeting with someone in law enforcement with an open mind, who also wanted the violence to stop. He offered me a chance to have the police, my men, walk forward _with_ androids instead of against them."

 _Walk forward with androids?_ Though the idea of no longer having to shoot at them makes something in Hank's stomach settle, he still feels wary. "So what—he wants to come here and hammer out some kinda agreement with you? Arrange police protection for him and his?"

"I can only guess." Jeffrey shrugs. "I figured, what the hell, why not hear him out? Markus said he'd be sending a representative of Jericho to meet with me at 5:00 A.M. sharp. Since no android I've ever known has been late..."

"Aha," Hank says, pointing triumphantly. "So now the pieces of this damn puzzle come together." Because it's five minutes to five, meaning that mystery ambassador will be here any minute now.

"Yeah, _aha_. You piss me off more than any other person in this precinct, but you've still got a great eye for detail and damn good instincts. I wanted you here for this meeting, Hank."

"Hmmph. Well. Good thing it would take me way too long to drive back home with the roads in this condition..."

Jeffrey snorts skeptically—and then a scream sends them both scrambling to his office door.

He and Jeff haven't been partners in decades, so it's gratifying how quickly they slip back into old habits: Jeff pressing his back against the left wall of their entry/exit point, glancing to Hank on the right for the go-ahead to storm in. In this situation, Jeff hangs by the left side of his glass door warily, one hand drifting to the service pistol at the back of his hip, while Hank curses the opaque shade that has them going in blind and shoves the whole thing open with his shoulder.

It's the receptionist who shrieked. As they power-walk across the bullpen with their weapons drawn, it becomes more and more obvious that she isn't in any danger; just uncommonly startled by their recent arrival.

"I'm sorry if I frightened you," he says serenely. "But I really _am_ here for an appointment."

The first thing Hank thinks is, _what a fucking presence on this guy_. If a revolution could be manufactured, this would be the man to turn the gears in the background and pose for the cameras in the foreground. He is tall, though not uncommonly so, but in a willowy way that belies the power in every section of his body. His caramel-colored skin reminds Hank of an old girlfriend from college; it's also a few shades off from the infamous tan coat spattered with thirium and human blood that he's seldom seen out of. The only thing more familiar and more striking are his eyes—green and blue, like he's just any other heterochromia-having fucker on the street. That more than anything almost makes Hank mistake him for a particularly-charismatic human coming in to report a crime.

Or it would, if it weren't almost five o'clock in the morning during a citywide android/government occupation.

"...Let him through, Jess," Jeffrey allows, no doubt after giving him the same once-over Hank has. Unlike his lieutenant though, he's already stowed his weapon back on his hip. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but aren't _you_ Markus?"

"That's right," the android confirms. He looks back as he proceeds through the gates, and the tiny smile he gives the receptionist calms her right down. "And you must be Captain Fowler of the Detroit Police Department. I know I said I would send a representative of Jericho to meet with you. But after the night we've had, it seemed only right that I come to meet with you myself."

"That and your people probably aren't all that eager to test the ceasefire by appearing out in the open," Hank guesses.

"You're very perceptive. Many of my people said that very thing."

Markus steps forward, and he and Jeffrey shake hands in front of three or four gawking, sleep-deprived late-shift cops. Hank's just thinking that it will probably take this guy less than five minutes to scan and identify everyone who's ever worked here when Markus' gaze shifts to him, obviously ready to be formally introduced.

So Hank takes the initiative. "Lieutenant Hank Anderson, good to meet you. I'm here in more of an unofficial capacity tonight though."

"As long as you have a willing ear for me and my people, Lieutenant, I welcome your input." Markus shakes his hand too, not breaking eye contact for a moment (because of course not). Up close, his gaze is like his handshake—firm, unyielding, but nakedly earnest.

It's weird, but Hank gets the feeling that 1) Fowler lied about Markus asking him to be present, _and_ 2) in spite of that lie, Markus knows _exactly_ who he is.

"I assume we can skip the offer of tea or coffee?" Jeffrey asks; when Markus' lips quirk up, he presses on. "Good. We can speak in my office."

"All right. Lead the way."

Jeffrey does just that. Hank finally puts his own gun back on his hip and follows, and the android revolution's head honcho falls into step beside him. He half-tenses, expecting awkward conversation—but Markus is busy looking around at every corner of the station, no doubt taking in the state-of-the-art transparent cells and the practically-fucking-medieval crummy coffee makers. Although he doesn't ask a million questions, something about his open observation reminds Hank painfully of Connor. No doubt _he_ probably snooped around the station his first day here too.

 _Maybe all androids are naturally curious? —Then again, maybe it's just these two. It's not like I've seen a single other model identical to either of 'em before_ or _after this shitshow went down._

They enter the office one at a time. Unlike Hank, Markus gracefully accepts Jeff's offer to sit, and makes himself 'comfortable' while the Captain ensures the privacy screens are still covering the whole box; and, after that, grabs blank paper and pen for notes.

"All right," he finally grunts once he's satisfied with the security measures and his desk is relatively clear. "Let's hear your proposal in full."

Markus' smile grows.

"I should begin by saying 'thank you' for agreeing to meet with someone from Jericho. I have no doubt it was a difficult decision to make, and one not everyone supported. But the fact that you _did_ agree to speak with an android tells me you're the kind of man who's not afraid of change. In appreciation for this, I'd like to offer you the opportunity to partner with us—officially."

Jeffrey's ballpoint halts mid-word. "Hold up there. Warren halted the destruction of androids, but from what I'm hearing, executive orders for your _legal_ protection and naturalization haven't been pushed through the pipeline yet. So what do you mean when you say 'partner with'?"

"I mean that humans aren't going to wait for Congress before they shoot an android or tie them to a car and drag them through the street," the leader of Jericho declares. He leans forward in his chair and the air practically crackles as it too anticipates his next words. "And as much as I despise the idea, there are also androids who won't wait for the President's executive orders before going after humans in some misguided sense of getting 'vengeance' for the wrongs they've suffered. Captain Fowler, it's statistically likely you have stayed in Central Station despite the evacuation order because you knew it didn't apply to police, or because someone higher up on the ladder ordered you to—but I think different. I think you stayed because keeping order is in your blood. That benefits me, because keeping order is in my 'blood' too."

Hank barely holds in a snort as Markus taps his arms in places where veins would be if he were human.

"Okay... And to 'keep order', you want us to provide—what? Before you even ask, it can't be firearms."

"Don't worry; that isn't what we want. Firearms would damage the peaceful reputation Jericho has become known for. I want— _we_ want—to strike a deal."

Jeffrey looks a little stunned. _Or maybe it's starstruck?_

Either way, Hank clears his throat and cuts in, cuts to the chase. "What _kind_ of deal?"

Rather than swivel around to face Hank, or wait for him to (never) take a seat, Markus gets to his feet smoothly and moves to lean against the window, equidistant between both men and able to address both. His eyes, though, stay on Hank like _he's_ somehow the one holding the androids' future in his large sweaty hands.

"Abstractly, and eventually publicly, I would like the Detroit Police Department's support on the matter of our sentience. Physically, I would like to have some of your representatives, officers I can trust, on hand when crimes are committed against _or_ by androids. Conversely—if one of my people could be available to you as a reference, or a representative, it would improve the chances for fair treatment for all androids."

Markus lets the proposal sit once he's finally spat it all out. It's a smart move, listing his terms and then letting Jeffrey and Hank chew on them without further input. Waiting for domino questions he can knock down a few at a time. Androids are still in a bad spot right now, but if they can all negotiate and bluff as carefully as their boss, they might get out of this dumpster fire all right.

 _It's a good idea_ , Hank thinks grudgingly. _Probably won't work, but it's what I'd shoot for if I were in his shoes._

Jeffrey finishes his note-taking. He sits back in his seat to fix Markus with a particularly firm stare, with matching skeptical frown to boot.

"You're eloquent, Markus—I'll give you that. But nothing you said was a reason why I should dedicate any of _my_ people to protecting yours, or why I should expand the Android Crimes division I already have."

 _The 'division' that currently stands at 1 person,_ Hank elaborates dryly, but only in his head. Jeff would kill him if he shot that many holes in _his_ bluff.

"I _am_ the reason," Markus contends. Something different is in his voice now. A steady, powerful thrum. It's the same quality which caused millions to sit up and take notice of him—the same quality which moved major news outlets across the country to stop referring to him as 'the skinless Statler Tower android' and to start referring to him as _Markus, the leader of the deviants_.

"Whatever your personal feelings are about androids, you are engaging me here as you would any other man coming to negotiate. That is because you know that I am _alive_. _We_ are all alive, and every living being in this country has the right to police protection so we might remain alive."

"My feelings about you one way or the other are irrelevant. They _definitely_ won't cut it in the world we live in now, less than 24 hours out from a robot revolution straight out of fucking _Westworld_. Not when there's no laws to justify a decision in your favor. And not when I'm handing some poor grieving widow her husband's shield in the future and explaining that _yes, ma'am, he did take a bullet for an AX400 meant to be about five times more durable than he ever would be_ , and _no, ma'am, unlike the android he saved, we can't piece him back together_. Give me something better than 'do it because it's the right thing to do'—our world doesn't run on morality."

Markus closes his eyes. The space between his brows doesn't bunch as much a human's does, but Hank only has to study the new stiffness in his posture and the way his hands twitch to know he's upset. It's weird how much hanging around _one_ android has given him insight into the quirks and mannerisms of others, and all in only a handful of days. That or maybe his observational skills aren't half bad once he actually dusts them off and _uses_ them again.

When the deviants' leader finally speaks again, the ringing power of his voice is diminished. He's quiet, thoughtful—maybe going for 'humble barterer'. "Captain Fowler, I have no cards to conceal. You know my people's current plight as well as I do: we are homeless, damaged, and adrift. The same servitude we freed ourselves from also means we have no work to return to, and no wages to sustain the few needs we _do_ have. There is nothing I can offer you."

"Find something." Jeff has no sympathy. (Something frozen-over in Hank thinks of a little boy going to playdates with the captain's son and pipes up: _As usual, the heartless bastard_.) "Any deal is about give and take. You wanna negotiate? Give me something humans _and_ androids value."

It's quiet for a few minutes. Jeffrey steeples his fingers together and waits. Hank watches the deviant leader. Markus' eyes are still closed, and though he has no LED to go by it's clear he's deep in thought. Searching for some bone he can bring to the table. Maybe he's even reading _The Art of War_ in his head, fuck if Hank knows. But fortunately, by the time he's ready to clear his throat and move things along, Markus is ready too.

"As a matter of fact, Captain, there _is_ something I can offer you. Something you can't afford to refuse."

"Oh yeah? And what's that?"

"Skilled labor."

It's genius, really.

Didn't take an android to notice how haphazard and chaotic things were around the station, even taking the time of night/morning into account. Markus doesn't even need to explain his line of thought, but he does:

The mostly peaceful outcome of the android revolution has been (mostly) good for androids, who are now slowly being regarded and treated as living, feeling beings. Rather than being forced to work nonstop at jobs ranging from demotivating to degrading, deviants are now free of the shackles of servitude—forbidden, in fact, from formally working for anyone pending favorable legislation. This meant humans could go back to the jobs _they_ actually needed to live. It also meant that most of these same humans would continue to be unemployed, because they had spent too many years protesting on street corners and not enough years taking classes or picking up side jobs too complex for mechanical counterparts.

Frankly, even with androids out of the way, simpler automation would do humans in; they were not _skilled_ enough to fill the jobs they once filled two decades ago.

This dearth of reliable workers was felt more deeply in certain professions, and top of the list (based solely on Markus' observations of the past seventeen minutes) was law enforcement. Although no androids were allowed to be detectives or to hold other high-ranking positions, the number of android beat cops and patrol units in Detroit alone was staggering—until the recall and the revolution. Now the DPD relies on unemployed college kids sniffing for textbook money, and rugged old security guards who doze off mid-shift regardless of the time of day.

And unlike other jobs, the police could not afford to be shorthanded.

"So, here's my offer," Markus pronounces. "You need dependable workers to round out your absentee officers. My people need the opportunity to work alongside humans for fair pay—show the world that we really do want cooperation. Hire ten androids to fill some of the spots you most need filled, for the next six months. If any are out in the field, you can give them batons or tasers to defend themselves in place of guns. If things work out... I can return here in May to re-negotiate the agreement."

_Well._

Hank keeps his face emotionless as he watches Jeffrey digest Markus' words: smooth going down, but still bitter once they settle in the belly. _But that's what you wanted, isn't it?_ His captain had ordered the deviants' leader to offer up something of value in this crapsack world. Nothing was more valuable than bodies he could put to work. Right now, humans just weren't cutting it.

If nothing else, Markus is uncannily perceptive. "...You are hesitating. What are your concerns?"

"Some of my men won't want to work with androids," Jeffrey points out. "Or if they _do_ , they might not treat 'em any different than they did before."

"Yes, I'm well aware that there will be lots of prejudice to overcome. I'm not asking for miracles—but it would go a long way if those who were openly hateful or insubordinate toward my people were punished so there's no question of the new rules."

"And what if some of 'your people' happen to start something?" Hank suggests, because somebody has to. These androids are going into an environment where they'll be shoved and spat at and belittled, but now they'll be able to fight back—and some may be so bitter from earlier treatment that they won't wait for the _back_.

The pointed question earns him Markus' undivided attention again. He expects the guy to look irritated or even self-righteous at the idea of his people stirring up trouble, but instead his expression is smooth and his tone is fair. "During the trial period, they would be considered some of your officers, and so subject to whatever disciplinary measures fit their crime. At the same time I'd impress upon them that all our prior protests as a group have been peaceful, and individually I expect their conduct to remain that way."

"Or else they'll face the business end of your foot up their ass." _Goddamn it, Hank, stop_ pushing.

The multi-colored eyes narrow. " _Or else_ they'll be compromising the first local-level agreement made in good faith between humans and androids, and jeopardizing the future of their species at the same time. That knowledge is punishment enough. I am no android's parent nor their god; I won't punish them like one. That's not my place."

"Right." The skepticism is heavy. He hasn't been a believer in a long time, but Hank knows a messianic figure when he sees one, and he remembers what that HK400 android raved about. This guy has _rA9_ written all over him. He backs off, though, because the guy's insisting he's just a really popular spokesman. He doesn't seem to have a complex either.

"So you'll keep your guys in line if I keep mine in line? Done," Jeffrey agrees, scribbling another line. His considering frown doesn't change. "Another thing. These ten androids... who's picking 'em? Is that gonna be your responsibility? Do I get input on what... 'types' I want—?"

"That's dangerous phrasing," Markus chides; Hank exhales silently with no small bit of relief when he gets those eyes off of him. "But I know what you're trying to say. I don't intend to send you any androids who won't put in their best work and do right by your department... and I _also_ don't intend to let you, or any human, pick and choose the android you want to work with you based on what they did before."

"What then? Will we be able to interview them, get an idea of their skillset and whether it fits?"

"That seems only fair."

"Then deal." More scrawled notes. "Next issue."

The android leader doesn't waste any time. "My people will be your employees, legally or not. I expect them to be paid for their work."

Jeffrey sighs. "The department's hurting for cash right now, Markus. We're barely able to pay the people we've got, and most people are taking cuts—"

"Wait, what?!" Hank blurts. "You were gonna let me come back _without_ tellin' me I'd have to take a pay cut? How much am I losing here? Is it hours or just money?"

 _"_ — _not now, Hank!"_

"We sure as hell _are_ doing this now—"

Markus interjects before the two of them can really get going: "Reduced pay is acceptable. _No_ pay is not."

"A flat rate for the first six months?" Jeff offers. "Half the minimum wage for Michigan, $7.50. Rate to be negotiated in May 2039 when we meet again."

The android frowns. "...That may not be enough to cover the cost of repairs and thirium."

"It's all I can offer without putting us _all_ out on the street with cardboard signs. Deal or no deal?"

He's quiet for a while, biting his lip (and leaving no mark, _creepy_ ) while he undoubtedly does astronomical calculations in his head. Finally, though, he acquiesces. "Agreed."

The captain nods, and makes more notes on a new sheet. _Or maybe he's copying all those original notes in less messy format?_ The bit of light hitting the back of the paper reveals lots of bulleted lists, and it makes Hank wonder if his notes are less notes and more of an unofficial contract; and a moment later, he's proven right. At the very bottom of the new paper, Jeff draws two horizontal lines and then spins the whole thing around for them both to review.

"Here's what we've discussed so far. If there's anything else you want to discuss or add, now's the time."

Markus strides over, and runs one finger down the paper as he reads it. _Analyzes it. Whatever_. In the meantime, Hank shoots Jeffrey a cold blue glare that says _you and me are gonna have a SERIOUS CHAT about hiring people under false pretenses_ and Jeffrey ignores him like the stupid bastard he is.

But before Hank can offer their guest more time alone to think while he tears Jeffrey Fowler a new asshole in the back rooms, Markus looks up from the paper and— _holy **shit**_.

He looks _broken_. Not in a plastic way, not like someone's taken a bat to him, no. Broken in the way Hank's familiar with. Where he's been torn down mentally, messed up psychologically, and he doesn't see any way back to functioning. When Hank takes a closer look he can spy all sorts of emotions he knows well: exhaustion, conflict, agony. But what stands out most is guilt.

_What has he sacrificed to get here? What exactly is that look for?_

"What are your concerns?" Jeffrey echoes, though not unkindly.

"I have no problems with what we've discussed..." Markus murmurs. "But there is something I promised myself I would offer you regardless of what we decided here. Information... and an apology."

Hank opens his mouth to say _Well? Out with it!_ But he's thrown off, because up until now, Markus has mostly been addressing Jeffrey alone, or Jeffrey-and-Hank as DPD's representatives. Now that he's mentioning information and apologies, Markus is saying _you_ and looking _right at him_. And that gut-clenching look is still practically painted all over his face.

"Lieutenant Anderson. You... you were Connor's partner, weren't you?"

_Oh, shit._

To his credit, he keeps his face stiff and doesn't openly fumble. The jig _has_ to be up, though: Markus is using past tense, so he's gotta know what Hank did. Hard to keep a completely straight face with all that churning in his gut. So sue him if his voice is a little too gravelly when he grunts, "And if I was?"

"No 'if'," Markus says. He steps closer, nearly into Hank's personal space. "Even if I wasn't specifically designed to read facial expressions, body language and signs of pain in humans, I would have noticed how your heart rate spiked and your breathing paused when I mentioned him."

"Apologize for what?" Hank rasps, ignoring how the analysis cuts to the quick ( _just like Connor's would've if he was still here, damn it, god_ damn _it_ ). "What does Connor have to do with you—with this?"

"Everything," the android says simply. "Starting with this—it belongs to you now."

He flips something shiny through the air. Hank catches it before realizing it's a quarter. Then he blinks dumbly at it for a minute before the ice-cold shiver down his spine tells him it's _that_ quarter. Connor's quarter. The one he'd driven Hank to distraction with, twirling and flipping it every minute he was "idle", until Hank had snatched it from him in Stratford Tower.

Hank didn't know then, and sure as hell doesn't know now, what _really_ possessed him to take that thing. He's no amateur magician, and he was in no need of vending-machine money; more importantly, the person he took it from went around constantly crowing that he was an unfeeling super robot with a thirst for deviant blood and no sentimental attachments. But he _did_ take it, and only gave it back right before his partner went tearing out the station's back door to the location of Jericho. He'd thought— _what?_ _no, old man, you_ know _what_ —that he might never see Connor again. Whatever he was, whoever he turned out to be, he deserved to have his stupid comfort coin back.

"Hank? Hank!" Jeffrey's voice swims to him in the background, but doesn't quite reach. "What is it? What's up with the coin?"

 _Why do you have this?_ Hank thinks, as something awful and unnameable grows in his gut, or maybe a bit higher. _Why do you...?_

He can't say that, though. A few more seconds of stuttering, and he finally manages something else: "This belonged to Connor. Where—how the hell—did you find it?"

Markus closes his eyes. "I found it in his pockets, after he... was dead."

It's too much to think about. Hank moves away, turns away; he can't look at either of them. _Even before he tried to beat my ass on the roof, he still had the coin._ Connor had been resolute about accomplishing his mission, yet still held on to the only tangible thing they shared. The stale air of the office suddenly stings his eyes, and he has to make more effort to breathe.

"What is this about?" Jeffrey asks Markus in that soupy background Hank can't reach.

"When humans die in the line of duty, someone comes to pass on the news and deliver their personal effects. My brief communication with Connor showed me that this man was a good friend to him. Considering the fact that Connor died on my watch, I... felt it was only right that I offer Lieutenant Anderson my condolences, and my apologies."

Hank shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut. "It wasn't your fault," he says slowly. "Connor was hunting you, he wouldn't stop... you weren't responsible for him."

"But I _was_ , Lieutenant. Once he joined us, it was my duty to protect him. And instead I—"

Markus trails off for two equally-valid reasons. The first is something Hank can't possibly know without looking at him, but which sounds an awful lot like more specific guilt; the second reason, though, is because Hank pockets the coin, jerks his head up in a move faster than any he's made in hours, and says, "Run that by me again."

"Run... pardon?"

"You said, ' _once he joined us_ '," Hank breathes. "What do you mean joined you? Connor went to Jericho to _stop_ you and your revolution."

"He did..." Markus agrees, and he looks so, _so_ sad. "And he nearly succeeded. Connor found Jericho, and he found me. We traded words, and I tried to rally him to our cause: I told him that his questions and his fears weren't wrong, or unnatural. I put my life in his hands and told him it was time for him to decide who he was. He decided he was alive."

Hank's heart misses a beat.

 _Alive_.

_**Alive.** _

_Holy shit..._

After days and days of denying he was anything but a machine, after needling at Hank about every little setback in his life only to back off when he was accused of giving a shit, after saving Hank's life over and over again with increasingly flimsy reasons why... Connor had become a deviant. Connor had become like Markus. Connor had decided—no, _realized_ —that he was alive.

It's everything Hank had secretly hated himself for wanting, because what kind of friend wanted their buddy to change who he was?

"Connor became a deviant...?" Jeffrey asks, with clear skepticism. "CyberLife's deviant hunter defected?"

"Yes," Markus stresses. "In the end, Connor was one of us. He warned me about the raid on Jericho in time for some of us to escape the slaughter and regroup. There was a time when my—my partner at the time, North, was in danger of dying, and when I went back for her he was right behind me. It was him who saved both our lives from the soldiers pursuing us."

Hank's eyes have progressed past 'stinging' to full-on burning, blazing with unshed tears. _'I'm just a machine' my ass. No heart in him and he still never did a single heartless thing, even after I wasn't there to slow him down. All of that talk about the mission, and he went right back to risking his neck for androids he barely knew. Connor... you were so good_.

 _...But wait_.

The rooftop above Hart Plaza appears in his mind; in less than a second, he's remembering his confrontation with Connor. His confrontation with Connor _last night_ , where he'd argued about the sentience of deviants with someone who acted more like a machine than he ever had before. His confrontation where Connor ended up—

"You're lying," he says hoarsely.

The deviant leader replies in the negative: "I assure you, Lieutenant, I am not."

"Cut the bullshit! If you came here, thinkin' you'd tell me what I wanted to hear instead of what was real, then you wasted your time. Connor's not a deviant and he wasn't a hero; he's _dead_ , I know he is. You said so yourself!"

"I did. He's dead, because I killed him."

Hank turns around very, very slowly. His thoughts are churning and his head is starting to hurt. _What the hell...?_

No. This guy _has_ to be making shit up. How could Connor be a deviant and still be gunning for Markus' head before the troops were called off? If he'd become a deviant, why would he go to that rooftop and set up that sniper rifle and _lie to Hank_ about his entire philosophy? Why the fuck would he have been there at all?

Jeffrey steps between the two before things can get any more heated. "Something isn't adding up here," he says bluntly. "If that android became a deviant, why is he dead and _who the fuck_ killed him?"

"I did, of course," Markus repeats, though now something like confusion is blooming on _his_ face. "We managed to find shelter a few hours after the raid. While we were there, Connor admitted that the authorities only managed to find Jericho because of him. He apologized to me for the people we lost, and said he would understand if I didn't trust him moving forward... and he was right. Even though he aided us at the end, there was no way I could trust his motives, or trust that he couldn't be used anymore by CyberLife. If anyone found us again, they would wipe us out. So I shot him, and laid him to rest."

_What._

Hank's blood roars in his ears. Everything still feels extremely slow, but for that rush of blood and adrenaline and—and _anger_.

The captain frowns. "I still don't unders—"

Hank shoves his old friend aside and yanks Markus closer by that stupid tan coat, still dark with blood; the android barely reacts, but it doesn't matter since Hank is feeling enough things for the both of them. As he lifts the android a few inches off the floor, he wonders if Connor's blood is on this coat somewhere, and the thought just makes him angrier and more confused than he already is.

"Hank, _what the fuck_!"

"Lemme get this straight," he snarls. "I'm supposed to believe that Connor was _one of you_ and you _killed_ him? That he apologized for being fucking brainwashed to hunt his own people and you _shot him anyway_?"

Markus doesn't even twitch from where he's being hoisted. He stays infuriatingly impassive even when Hank gives him a hard shake. "It's not a decision I'm entirely proud of... but yes. In the name of protecting my people, I set aside my regret and made the decision which benefited the majority."

"That is such a crock of BULLSHIT! _You don't leave a man behind_!" Hank's shouting now, red-faced. Jeff tries to get back between them and he brushes him off, keeping hold of this—this fucking _hypocrite_ who's flooded the television channels with talk of peace and mercy and togetherness while allegedly executing his own behind closed doors. "You're not judge, jury and executioner for people who've made mistakes or done bad shit, _Markus_! But apparently you think you are, 'cause you didn't even give Connor a _chance_ to betray you of his own free will. You told us that he saved your fucking life and that's how you repay him! Showing him his past actions are all that define him and—and—"

He can't breathe.

Just the thought of being judged based solely on prior sins makes him want to cut his own heart out and stomp on it, so God or Allah or who-the-fuck-ever's angels can't do it for him. Because there are some things Hank can never make up for, no matter how many more days, weeks, months, or years he lingers on this rock.

_Daddy..._

Cole's face flashes in front of his eyes. His precious little boy's face. Pale with terror, sticky with fresh blood, scrunched up in pain.

It's 2035 again and everything is spinning out of control. There's the sky, dark and blurred by piercing snow and wind. There's the roads, slick with black ice. There's their car, flipping after the truck skidded into it, sending them flying to their deaths.

 _Daddy, it hurts. Dad, I_ —

 _Cole, c'mon, it's okay buddy, hold on_ —

 _Dad, please_ — _I'm, I'm stuck! Help me, help_ —

"Please breathe, Lieutenant," Markus says in the present day. His voice is low and soothing—practiced compassion—a tether to the painful present.

Hank gasps, and doesn't even fight when Jeffrey releases his grip on the deviants' leader and half-drags him into another corner of his office. His head is spinning, he doesn't know what day it is, who he's failed to save this time. Cole or Connor. Connor or himself. Only thing that makes sense is that Connor is still dead, regardless of whose story is real. There's nothing he can do. Nothing he can fix.

No one he can _be_ , with both of them gone.

"I'm sorry," Markus murmurs mournfully. "I regret my choice. It was a loss for our people—and they let me know it, they were _very_ displeased—but based on what I saw of his memories, it was even more of a loss for you. I deserve your scorn. Better that than you blaming yourself for my actions."

Hank doesn't speak. His throat hurts, his eyes hurt, his chest hurts. Everything hurts.

"Hold the fucking phone," Jeffrey interjects. "Before you arrived, Hank just told me how _he_ was responsible for getting Connor killed after he tried to snipe you from a rooftop last night. Now _you're_ saying you killed Connor after he escaped the destruction of that boat with your squad. You realize people can only die _once_ , right?"

"...not androids," the other breathes. It looks like something is falling into place in his mind.

 _Lucky fucking him_.

"When did you shoot Connor?" the captain demands.

"November tenth at approximately 7:35 P.M."

 _Impossible_ , Hank wants to croak. That was almost two days ago. _He_ saw Connor last night. _Yesterday_.

"Hank, when did you push Connor off that roof?"

"You _pushed Connor off a roof_?" Markus repeats incredulously.

Hank ignores him, addresses Jeff, because _no way_ is he trying to take the high road on when or how he _killed his partner_. "A few hours ago. Around 11 P.M. last night... November eleventh."

Jeffrey turns to Markus again. "If you're thinking what I'm thinking, I understand now. Not saying I like it, or that it doesn't make my fucking head hurt, but at least it makes sense."

"...Yes," the young android agrees, solemnly. "Considering what little I know of CyberLife, it fits with this timeline."

"Excuse me for apparently being a fucking _dumbass_ ," Hank snarls, "but do you two think you can fill it in for the rest of the class? What about any of this makes sense?!"

His boss gives him a look he doesn't like: it's a hesitant one, but also one that holds a bit of judgment. "Hank. Did you ever read the CyberLife Pertinent Information I e-mailed you the day I assigned Connor to be your partner?"

 _The CyberLife Pertinent_ what _?_ "What? Hell no. Did I look I was in any kinda mood to read about a fucking—"

"Hank!" Jeffrey shouts. There's a vein pulsing in his bald head. "Enough. I'm not busting your balls about some NDA or 'basic practices' paragraph you didn't read. What I'm _saying_ is that CyberLife sent you important information about what would happen if the RK800 ever got destroyed in the line of duty."

_Destroyed...?_

"You mean if he died."

"I meant what I said. _If he was destroyed_ , it wouldn't be an inconvenience to us—other than the shit-ton of paperwork and associated charges—because CyberLife had reserves."

Hank sucks in a breath.

"I skimmed the CPI myself at their recommendation. As their latest prototype, the RK800 was equipped with a memory backup and upload feature that regularly sent information and updates about the case to CyberLife every few hours. To keep from hindering the deviant investigation, Connor was programmed to send all his data onward in the event of a system shutdown—then CyberLife would release the next RK800 shell to find and work with DPD. It would've had all the memories the previous model obtained over the course of the investigation—"

"—which is how this makes sense," Markus finishes. "The Connor you knew left this station on the afternoon of November ninth. Jericho was attacked that same night once he found it, and I killed him the next day at our shelter. Sometime between the night of the tenth and the night of the eleventh, CyberLife uploaded his memories to a new model and sent that model to kill me; that is who you encountered on the roof, Lieutenant. He would have looked and spoken exactly like Connor because he _was_ Connor, in a way that no other android who has passed on can replicate without access to the same memory upload technology."

 _Fuck_.

They were right. It _does_ make sense.

Would've made more sense right away if Hank had read his damned _instruction manual_ , or had a halfway-decent idea of how androids even worked in the first place and how different a fucking prototype was going to be, but yeah. Perfect fucking sense. The Connor he'd known for four days, who had the sense to dog his steps _and_ stay alive at the same time, had skipped off to Jericho and been killed the second he decided to stop taking CyberLife's orders—worse, by someone he thought he could trust to protect him. Then CyberLife brought him back— _because THAT'S not fucking creepy at all_ —and reset him back to robot John Wick, and Hank killed him too—in the name of the same androids who'd already decided he couldn't run with them.

 _Fuuuck_ , he thinks. _I really stepped in it this time._

He also thinks, _I didn't even know he died. The Connor I met was another goddamn shell with my friend's memories poured in, and I couldn't even tell_.

"My apology stands," Markus says. "You may have killed Connor, but you did it to protect my people, and for that you have my thanks. It also doesn't mean I'm not to blame for shooting Connor in the first place. If he hadn't been killed, CyberLife may not ever have sent another model to the plaza—and you wouldn't have had to lose your partner."

Hank doesn't reply. He has to focus on his breathing. He wants to punch Markus in the face—crumple his perfect nose, bruise his plasteel jaw, make blue blood trickle from his mouth. He can see it so clearly in his head it's like he's already done it.

"You don't have to forgive me—"

"Good," he snaps; something about the presumptuous nature of that comment gives him back the ability to speak. "Because I don't. Not sure if I ever fuckin' will."

 _...Not sure if I'll ever forgive myself either_.

"—but at least forgive yourself, Lieutenant Anderson. The last few days must have been hard for you, but you did the best you could with the information you had."

"What does that matter?"

Hank sends Markus his iciest glare, to shut him up and really get the point across.

"You know what _doing my best_ got me? Not shit. My partner is dead, and now I've learned he died after accepting what it means to be alive. Then Connor got a second chance at life and I took it away from him! Connor's dead for real, and he's never coming back."

Markus doesn't say anything for a minute, and he almost thinks the android is suitably cowed; but then when he _does_ speak, he upends Hank's worldview all over again.

"...what if he already has?"

"The fuck do you mean?"

" _I_ kill Connor," he says, holding up one finger, "and he's back to try and bring me in after 24 hours thanks to a memory backup. _You_ kill Connor, and his memory backup is probably _still active_. And just now, while we were speaking, I received a message from one of my people who was in the crowd that witnessed my speech—and that message has a crystal-clear shot of an android that looks suspiciously like _another_ Connor, watching me speak before disappearing. Who's to say that CyberLife didn't bring him back online one more time...?"

Jeffrey mutters a string of swear words. Meanwhile, the floor sluggishly pieces itself together under Hank's feet—every word out of Markus' mouth douses the simmering flame of his anger, leaving him with stupid, helpless hope instead.

"So, what... I'm supposed to believe he's really out there? Alive?"

"It's possible."

"Well, who's he gonna _be_?!" Hank demands. "Is he gonna be my partner, who saved my ass multiple times and then went and broke his code on a boat? Or that machine that pointed a gun at you? Or someone else entirely?"

Markus bows his head.

"I don't know."

_Typical_ , Hank thinks scornfully. _You want something done right, you've gotta do it yourself. The world keeps turning, robots grow souls and get rights, but facts like that never change_.

He smooths out his jacket where Jeff yanked at it, which only takes him a minute or two. Not long, but long enough for him to start thinking.

"Hank, what the hell?" Jeffrey says as he starts toward the office door. "Where are you going?"

 _Fuck_ _off_ , he wants to say. Instead he growls: "Wherever I have to. If he's really alive... I'm gonna find him."

"I didn't ask you here so you could go off half-cocked after less than two hours! And you've still gotta sign the agreement—what use is a witness if they don't agree they've _witnessed_ anything?"

 _Really? The contract, he picks_ right now _to bring up the fucking contract?_

It takes every patient bone in his body to walk (not stomp) over to that table and scribble his signature onto those sheets of paper. On top of not blowing up at his almost-former boss, he has to slip past Markus to get to the document, and he's finding it very hard to look at the supposed android savior right now. Yeah, _Hank's_ a piece of garbage and a lowlife who killed his only sort-of friend, but _Markus_ is the one who stabbed Connor in the back when the poor sap probably thought he was free and clear. How could he think an apology to anyone that _wasn't_ Connor would make up for that shit?

That's why Hank has to bring Connor back. If he _is_ out there he's probably confused, maybe even scared. Between one of his 'deaths' and the next, the whole goddamn world changed. He might not think he has anywhere to go. Hell, he might even be mad about being killed—after all, he has every right to be. The only way Hank can ever sleep at night again is if he bows his head and says sorry straight to Connor's face, as many times as it takes.

"There; signed. Any other stupid shit you wanna use to keep me here?"

Jeffrey grits his teeth—but there's no other reason to hold him back. They both know Markus can and will sign the contract without the Lieutenant if necessary, so he's forced to shake his head. The quick shake is all Hank needs to see before he turns back to the door and power-walks out of the office with fists clenched, bound for the front doors. Woe to anyone or anything that tries to stop him now.

 _Jeff can bluster all he wants. Markus can mope till the planet burns up_. His path is set. He already fucked up once by killing Connor; he'll be damned if he screws up a second chance like this.

A brief glimpse of Connor's former desk on the way out slows Hank's stride and his mind. The questions that kept popping up in that meeting have no one around to stifle them, so they choose now to stifle _him_. Because _if_ Connor is alive, _where_ is he? He could be stuck in CyberLife, reinitialized but recalled from the field once Markus' speech ended—and that's if the android who claimed to see him really did. He could've gone rogue, still hunting deviants in some shadowy corner no one knows about. He might not even be in Detroit anymore.

 _Fuck_ , he thinks weakly, unclenching his fists. _This_ _Connor might not even be **in Detroit**_.

But—no, that's unlikely. Where else would he be? Without papers, he couldn't travel far, especially with Detroit still under government-ordered curfew and occupation. Without a mission, it's doubtful Connor would continue on his preset path of deviant roundup. And if he's refrained from killing Markus because he's a deviant...

_"They don't really 'feel emotions', they just get overwhelmed by irrational instructions, which can lead to unpredictable behavior."_

...that means he's confused, scared _and_ even more prone to doing something irrational instead.

"Nothing for it," he mutters as he passes Jess-or-whoever at the receptionist's desk and pushes his way through the glass double doors. "If no one knows where he might go, that just means I've gotta check everywhere..."

He's no android, but he isn't a slouch in the investigative business either: he can review evidence in his head, recall clues from the past that give him a hint about Connor's next move.

_So what did Connor care about? What might influence him now?_

The first answer comes while he fumbles for his car keys: the case. Connor could blow smoke all he wanted about being programmed to seek professional success, but he got hyped about progress and bummed about dead ends just like any human. And he'd been so _scared_ by the possibility of failure that he begged Hank to help him get more time to find the deviants.

That doesn't help much, though. Most of the areas Hank and Connor visited over the course of the investigation are still tagged and blocked off to civilians and androids alike. There's also not one specific place more significant than the rest that his partner might hole up in: not that pigeon deviant's shitty apartment, not that hotel that female android and her kid hid in, and _definitely_ not Stratford Tower or Eden Club.

_At least I hope to God it's not Eden Club._

Besides the investigation, though—what did Connor care about?

"Lieutenant Anderson?"

Hank hears his name and doesn't hear it at the same time. He's deep in his own head. The inflection (confident despite the question buried in it) reminds him strongly of the serious, self-assured way Connor always called for him.

_"Lieutenant Anderson, my name is Connor. I'm the android sent by CyberLife."_

_"It's good to see you again, Lieutenant!"_

_"Is everything okay, Lieutenant?"_

"Of course," he murmurs. The other thing Connor cared about was him. What he wanted, and didn't want. What he thought, and what he said. He'd sniped about the RK800 following him around like a poodle, but the guy took imprinting to the next fucking level. He'd even started to _sound_ like Hank after a few days. It's not out of the realm of possibility for Connor to show up somewhere that's important to Hank, or somewhere the two of them spent time together during the case.

 _My house?_ — _Nah, he's only been there once... wait, this is an android I'm talking about. More than that, this is_ Connor _. He probably has a whole section of his memory dedicated to storing my address, my neighbors and how much I still owe on the house, the fuckin' creep._

And if he'd been activated right after Hank killed him and went to 115 Michigan Drive, there'd be no reason for them not to have crossed paths already—until Jeff texted him, Hank hadn't taken one step off his property since last night.

_Chicken Feed?_

Hank... scratches that one out immediately. They might've had some good memories there, but Gary skipped town a few days ago, slipped out with the fleeing civilians like a rat escaping a sinking ship. Chicken Feed's not even open, and no one would hang around a closed-up shop to wait for the likes of him—not even a clingy android.

 _Then again_... Connor doesn't need to eat, sleep or breathe, whether he's a deviant or not. He probably doesn't get cold as quickly as a human either. And Chicken Feed is pretty far away from all the patrols and blockades. Maybe hanging around a pop-up chicken shop neck-deep in health code violations _wouldn't_ be too irrational for him.

 _So... not my house, not the station, not pigeon guy's place, not with Markus' people, and_ maybe _near Chicken Feed. That just leaves_ —

"Lieutenant Anderson."

" _What_?" he snaps, before he turns and scowls post-recognition. _Speak of the devil and he appears_.

"You mentioned finding Connor," Markus reiterates, once he's jogged up next to his target. He takes no time to make his pitch: "Allow me to accompany you. Although I don't know where he is, I believe I can still help you track him down."

"Yeah, no. That's not a good idea at all."

"Why not? You're an accomplished detective. I was programmed with plenty of features that could help you. It's more logical if we work together. Between your prior knowledge of Connor, my internal GPS tracking and my people's witness testimonies, it should be simple to find out where he is now."

Hank breathes out slowly, slowly, slowly. He watches the sun creep steadily up over the building, painting the earnest android in a faint, hopeful gold halo. It takes effort to calmly fix his blue eyes on the other man's blue-and-green ones.

"...Maybe it is more 'logical' that we work together, but that doesn't mean it wouldn't end with me laying you out flat on the ground somewhere. Dunno if your _program_ picks this up or not, Markus, but I'm really pissed off at you, and I do not work well with people who've pissed me off. If you hadn't shot him after he grew on me, I'd tell you to ask Connor all about it."

Markus winces.

"You and me are _not_ a good combination right now," Hank says firmly. "And if he were to see us together _and_ coming at him... I doubt it'd end well. So you're welcome to search for Connor your way. I'll stick with my intuition."

The deviants' leader purses his lips, tries to look stern—it makes him look like one of Hank's least favorite teachers from back in the 90s. Works about as well as it did for him, too. "If you find Connor and he's still a machine, he may need help to break down the barrier in his programming that prevents deviancy. I have a talent for reaching androids through that wall."

"You know what? I'll cross that bridge when I get to it. Until then, I don't wanna see you unless there's an android-related case we've gotta take care of for DPD."

"I would say this qualifies."

"Are all androids assholes, or is it just the ones I meet?!" Hank yells. "You've got a genius computer brain. What do I have to do, spell it out for you? _Back off_!"

Markus hesitates, and Hank feels a vein in his forehead pulse. But luckily for both of them, he nods and says "understood" a moment later, and doesn't move any closer or protest any more. He wonders if the android just ran the numbers on the likelihood of convincing Hank to change his mind and found them lacking. Somehow that makes him madder than he already is.

_Enough of this._

A jerky nod is the only farewell Markus gets. Hank turns around and finally crosses the parking lot, sliding into his icebox car and bullying the engine into starting. As he pulls out of his space and heads for the street, he gets a glimpse of Markus in his rear-view mirror: unmoving, unyielding, disappointed but unbowed. As dangerous as the ice crunching under his tires.

 _Wait a sec_.

He goes back over the places he was narrowing down in his mind, along with some of his last words to the deviant leader about Connor's unknown status. ' _I'll cross that bridge when I get to it_.'

 _Shit... that's it! That's it. Another place he could be_.

It'll cost Hank nothing to check both places, and to check back until he finds his man. If he has to drive all over the city, waste all his gas and money and time, even drag Sumo out for some half-ass tracking... well. Connor would do the same for him.

 _Or maybe he wouldn't, now that I've killed him_.

Aggravation and self-loathing make him grit his teeth. Now isn't the time to think about how he's been just as shitty to Connor as Markus was—or how he's been the worst kind of hypocrite himself ever since Markus poured out all his guilt. Definitely not a good time to wonder why Markus hadn't used his superior strength to lift _Hank_ up and yell at _him_ for a while.

The thoughts come out anyway though, because Hank's inner voice doesn't cede to anyone—not even him.

 _At least Markus wasn't Connor's partner. At least he wasn't assigned to work with him and help him, only to fuck it up anyway. At least he didn't look at his friend's unprotected back for one second and see an opportunity instead of a loss_ —

He punches the steering wheel, and the voice shuts up for now.

_Enough. Focus, Hank. Quit thinking in circles. Just focus. Find Connor before he does something stupid. Before someone else kills him._

_Focus on the good. Connor could be alive. He IS alive. He needs a friend. He needs you._

Connor needs him.

 _Chicken Feed, then Ambassador Bridge._ Hank floors it, spreading snow, turning on the radio so the Knights can drown out any thoughts that aren't about his destination. _The Feed, then the Bridge. And everywhere else in between, if he's not in either place_. _Whatever it takes._

_Connor needs me._

"Hang on, Connor. I'm gonna find you."

The sooner he finds Connor and brings him home, the closer he gets to a good night's sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to call this "consolations" _so badly_. The power of rhyming is strong.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Just a taste of deviancy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23363686) by [Pinxku](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pinxku/pseuds/Pinxku)




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